


The Persistence of Memory

by kimberquel (kimberly_a)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s03e15 A Day In The Life, Fillory (The Magicians), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberly_a/pseuds/kimberquel
Summary: Quentin and Eliot's first time in Fillory





	The Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> With special thanks to @coldwaughtersq, @ConeyIslandBlitz, and @highkingeliot for their kindness and encouragement on the RAO

Eliot wasn’t sure when it started. Was it when he and Quentin decided to build just one bigger bed to share, because it would be easier than building two separate beds?

“It’s not like we’re short on time here, Q,” he had pointed out, gesturing at the mosaic tiles they’d been shuffling around for weeks with no success.

But Quentin had surprised him, responding, “I’m not gonna have some kind of homophobic freak-out, El. Let’s just build one bed. It makes more sense.” Then he had grinned that little boy grin. “And I like to cuddle.”

That had surprised a sputtering laugh out of Eliot, because it was funny but at the same time the phrase “homophobic freak-out” reminded him too much of what had happened after their night with Margo. That night had obviously meant something different to Eliot than it had to Quentin, given the drastic contrast between their reactions afterward.

So. Okay. It probably started before that night with Margo, then, because he could look back now and see that he’d reveled in finally having the chance to slowly slide his hand to cradle the nape of Q’s neck and reel him in for a deep kiss, finally having the chance to feel Q’s cock pulsing hard and slick in his hand while Q’s hot, eager breath panted against his lips. Having the chance to hear the noises Q made when Eliot slid into his tight body, how Q’s hips bucked up, wanting to get closer, how Q begged him to fuck him harder.

They’d tried it both ways that night, actually, but Q had very obviously preferred bottoming, based on the volume of the moans that had streamed out of his mouth non-stop when Eliot was thrusting inside him.

So, sure, it was clear he’d been fantasizing about having Quentin naked in his bed long before that night. And most of those fantasies hadn’t involved Margo or any magical interference. Just a warm, willing Quentin, wanting him.

Could it have started as early as that very first day at Brakebills? The day an adorably confused and awestruck manchild stumbled, half-blinded by his own long hair, through the shrubbery and into Eliot’s life?

Whenever it started, it was a long time before they ended up in Fillory on this godforsaken quest to represent “the beauty of all life.” Would Q be embarrassed—or even offended—if Eliot just created a portrait of _him_ in square ceramic tiles?

But Eliot would never do that. Not only had Quentin made his opinions about any kind of liaison between himself and Eliot extremely clear, but Eliot also was simply not a person made for grand romantic gestures. Or grand romantic anything, really. He did consider himself _grand_ , certainly, but not romantic. The idea of buying a dozen roses made him break out in hives at the twee horror of the cliché.

Eliot Waugh was not made for romance. Sex, yes. Eliot Waugh was definitely made for sex, as often and as varied as possible. But Eliot Waugh was not made for romance.

Never mind that he had some sort of feelings for Quentin Coldwater and couldn’t even remember when they had started. It didn’t matter. Even if Quentin had returned his interest, Eliot wouldn’t have been any kind of romantic boyfriend. He didn’t do relationships. It just wasn’t him. Never had been, never would be.

And if he sometimes found that he couldn’t get a certain night out of his mind, it was because the sex had been so incredible, and not for any other reason.

* * *

As the months passed, he found it more difficult to stay aloof and maintain any sort of elegant persona. Rough cloth tunics didn’t lend themselves to elegance, and he found himself teasing Quentin more playfully, more like his relationship with Margo than any other relationship he’d experienced. He’d never let anyone else as close as Margo … except, now, Q.

It frightened him sometimes, how much he’d come to rely on Quentin in his life here in Fillory. How much he looked forward to going to bed each night, now that they’d tossed aside all pretense and fitted their bodies together like two spoons in a drawer, how Quentin seemed to actually enjoy Eliot’s arm wrapped around him as they gradually fell asleep to the sound of each other’s slow breathing. Even better were the mornings when they had shifted during the night, when Eliot woke before Quentin and could look at his face in the glowing morning sunshine and see the man’s face free of worry, free of doubt and fear, the man Quentin could be someday, the man Eliot hoped he _would_ be someday. He loved to watch as Q’s face subtly moved as he began to wake, how he yawned unselfconsciously before opening his eyes and seeing Eliot there beside him in the bed. He always smiled, always said the same thing. “You’re already awake! We should get to work.” He never commented on the fact that Eliot had obviously been watching him in his sleep.

Perhaps he didn’t want to say anything about it because that would require acknowledging it, which would lead to a whole can of worms that neither of them wanted to explore. Of course Quentin wouldn’t want to make things awkward. They were stuck here together, after all.

So every morning they would go to separate rooms to exchange their sleep clothes for their daytime clothes, and Eliot would exchange his nighttime relaxation for his daytime persona, tattered though it might be after all this time. He did have some dignity to preserve, after all. Even if he had let Q in as close as Margo, Eliot still had his dignity.

And then they would go out to work on the mosaic together. Every day, together.

* * *

At first, Eliot thought he must be imagining things, but it seemed like Eliot’s eyes when he woke in the morning lingered on Eliot’s face a bit before he spoke. His lips curved in what looked like fondness.

Well, of course they would become fond of each other as the months passed. How could someone spend that much time with Quentin Coldwater without becoming extremely fond?

But it appeared that perhaps Quentin Coldwater was becoming more fond of Eliot Waugh, as well. Of course, Q had always engaged in quite a bit of hero worship, which Eliot had encouraged and enjoyed immensely. But the hero worship had gradually eroded in Fillory as they treated each other more and more like equals as the months went by.

So what was that look in Quentin’s eyes sometimes when he looked at Eliot? Eliot tried not to read anything into it. Q had made himself extremely clear about his preferences regarding any relationship with Eliot after that night with Margo.

In the darkness, after he heard Quentin’s breath become deep and even in sleep, Eliot sometimes found himself lying awake, wondering if perhaps some of that reaction had been due to Alice. He found himself wondering what might have happened that morning if Alice hadn’t existed, or at least hadn’t been in a relationship with Q. If Q had been free to choose. Was it possible he would have chosen Eliot? In the light of day, the possibility seemed ludicrous, but in the dark warmth of their bed, with Quentin curled within the curve of his own longer body, Eliot found himself wondering.

And Q’s damnable eyes. The way that they looked at him now. Not all the time, but sometimes. And sometimes accompanied by that kissable curve of his lips.

Eliot had enough experience with people wanting him that he eventually had to admit the truth. Little Quentin Coldwater had developed a crush on him. Ridiculous, of course, given their situation, and yet unsurprising. He _was_ Eliot Waugh, after all. But nothing would ever come of it, because little Quentin Coldwater didn’t have the balls to make a move, and Eliot would be damned before he’d do it himself. Not with the memories of that horrible “morning after” always hovering in the back of his mind. The memories of how Quentin couldn’t get away from him quickly enough, how he’d nearly flown out of Eliot’s bed with nothing but horror on his face.

Eliot had never had anyone else react that way to a night of torrid passion with him, magical interference or not, and it wasn’t an experience he had any intention of repeating. Even _his_ sizable ego had been a bit dented.

Well, perhaps more than a bit.

* * *

So he hadn’t seen it coming. Sitting with Quentin on the mosaic, celebrating the one year anniversary of their entrapment on this endlessly frustrating quest, humor and irony in both their eyes at calling it a “celebration,” they’d raised their glasses in a toast.

And then, out of nowhere, little Quentin Coldwater had proven he had a set of balls after all, and he had leaned forward and kissed Eliot. Just a peck, really. But definitely a kiss.

Well, there was nothing wrong with a bit of kissing, right? Eliot had kissed Margo a thousand times. All right, so this wasn’t quite the same, but he couldn’t help reaching out to hold Quentin’s face in his hand and kissing him properly. In the morning they could just pretend this hadn’t happened, this moment of weakness brought on by too much plum wine. So Eliot let himself luxuriate in it, in the tentative stroke of Quentin’s tongue against his own, Quentin’s increasing self-confidence as the kiss became passionate, bringing back memories of that time years ago when Quentin had climbed onto his lap and kissed him with surprising skill and thoroughness.

Quentin brought that same skill to bear now, and soon they were lying side by side on the blanket, tiles poking Eliot’s hip a bit through the thick quilted fabric. Quentin’s arm wrapped around him tightly, sliding up into Eliot’s hair, and oh that was definitely all right. He returned the favor, wrapping his fingers in the soft length of Q’s hair, using the leverage to pull his face closer, his mouth opening wider, his kisses losing control. He waited for Q to pull away any moment, to look off into the dark and stammer an apology, but he didn’t. Instead, he rolled Eliot onto his back and climbed on top of him, his hips on top of Eliot’s, and it became obvious that they were both hard.

Q pulled his mouth from Eliot’s, and now he would pull away, though why he would climb on top of Eliot first confused Eliot a bit. “Take me to bed, El,” Quentin said, his eyes dark and serious.

Eliot shook his head in confusion, and saw Quentin misunderstand, his eyes going flat and his face closing as he began to roll off Eliot’s body. But Eliot grabbed Q’s hips and held him in place, gazing up into that face he knew nearly as well as he knew his own now. “Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly, and he hated that tone in his voice. He wanted to sound confident and proud, not hesitant. Eliot Waugh was never hesitant.

But he didn’t feel like Eliot Waugh in this moment. He just felt like Eliot. Or, even, Q’s “El.” And maybe El could show some vulnerability without losing face.

“I’m sure,” Q said, and he stood up, pulling on Eliot’s hand until they were both standing. “Come to bed with me.” And then he leaned up for another deep kiss as his hands slid to explore Eliot’s back. He led Eliot by the hand into the house they’d built together.

He was pleasantly surprised when Q playfully pushed him down onto the bed, flat on his back. He hadn’t expected little Quentin Coldwater to be so forceful, and he liked it more than he probably should. He liked that this wasn’t little Quentin Coldwater taking him to bed. This wasn’t the scared boy who’d fled from him before, but rather a man. A man who wanted him.

Eliot propped himself up on his elbows and watched Q walk slowly toward the bed, and the look in Q’s eyes sent a shiver through him.

He needed to regain some control of this situation.

Raising one knee to strike a dramatically seductive pose, Eliot let his voice rumble a bit deeper than normal when he asked, “So how do you want me?”

The way Q’s face immediately relaxed into such familiarly fond lines disarmed him. “Just the way you are, El. That’s how I’ve always wanted you.”

Eliot swallowed convulsively.

How many lovers had he had, without any of them ever making him feel this way? He felt vulnerable again, and he didn’t like it. But then he remembered that this was his Q, and he was safe, and he relaxed back onto the bed with a welcoming smile. “Then come have me.”

* * *

Q traced small kisses along Eliot’s bicep, then flicked a clever tongue along the delicate, sensitive skin at the inside of his elbow.

Eliot gasped and arched, his head pressing back against the mattress they’d made together. In this home they’d made together. Q’s tongue continued to gently stroke the tender skin that was one of Eliot’s secret, slightly embarrassing erogenous zones. “How did you know?” he gasped.

Q raised his head to meet Eliot’s eyes in the candlelight and said quietly, “I never forgot.” Images of their night together with Margo so long ago flashed through Eliot’s mind. “I never forgot any of it.”

Q had always acted as if he was ashamed and disgusted by any memories of that night, but the heated expression on his face now told a different story.

“I never forgot either,” Eliot admitted. “I never wanted to.” Then he flipped them so that Q was beneath him on the bed, their clothes long since thrown to the floor. “But I did want to do this,” and he slid down Q’s body to take his cock in his mouth, drawing a shout from Q that made Eliot preen inwardly. He still had it.

* * *

He hadn’t gotten a good look at Q’s face the first time, looking up the length of his body with Q’s cock in his mouth while Q threw his head back and groaned like he was dying.

The second time, with Q riding him, face-to-face, he got to feel that smooth heat tight around him as their rhythm sped faster and faster, and he saw Q’s brows draw together, the same way they did when he cried, but he knew Q wasn’t about to cry. He was about to come. Come because of the feel of Eliot’s cock inside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, perhaps because it was his second orgasm in an hour and they weren’t either of them teenagers. Q squeezed his eyes shut, but Eliot urged, “Look at me. I want to look into your eyes when you come.” Q tightened around him in response to Eliot’s words, and the moan that emerged from his mouth was absolutely pornographic, but he did open his eyes and gaze down so their eyes met.

Q’s pace on top of him sped even more, his hands gripping Eliot’s against the mattress as if afraid he would be swept away if he didn’t hold tightly enough. Eliot felt his cock begin to swell and hoped that Q was close. He wasn’t naive enough to expect simultaneous orgasms—though there was a spell for that and he should remember it next time—but he wanted to watch what happened to Q’s face in those final moments. He remembered, but remembering wasn’t enough. It had never been enough. He had to see it again.

“Come,” Eliot gasped beneath Q, bucking his hips in rhythm with Q’s downward thrusts. “Come for me, my Q. My sweet Q. Come for me with my cock filling you up inside like we’ve both been imagining for years. Like I’ve been imagining whenever I was fucking some other guy. It was always you, Q. Always you. So come for me. Let me see you come.”

And it was as if Eliot’s words had talked him into orgasm just as much as his cock had fucked him into it. Q’s mouth dropped open, his face screwing itself into what looked like excruciating pain, and Eliot grabbed Q’s cock. With only two slick pulls from Eliot’s hand, Q was coming, his spunk spurting onto Eliot’s belly, its wet heat enough to push him over the edge as well. And if Q had been able to keep his eyes open, then Eliot could do it, too, even though it took him more effort than he thought he had energy for. He wouldn’t close his eyes, he would continue gazing into Q’s face, that beautiful face gone soft now with affection so obvious Eliot couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

“I love you,” Q whispered as if it were his most precious secret, and Eliot came.

* * *

The next morning, Eliot woke before Quentin but didn’t allow himself the luxury of watching the other man’s face in the golden light of morning, one of Quentin’s shoulders bare where the blanket had ridden down. Eliot found himself nearly vaulting out of the bed, but doing so as stealthily as possible so Quentin wouldn’t see him naked, gathering his clothes from the floor and fleeing the room.

Quentin looked deliciously rumpled when he emerged nearly an hour later, and the smile on his face made Eliot’s stomach knot in uncomfortable ways. “I got started without you, lazy bones,” Eliot teased just like he might have done on any other day, and he saw Quentin’s brows knit in confusion, his forehead doing that wrinkly thing it did when he was unhappy. But he nodded and they got to work on their latest design.

When they took their break at lunchtime, sitting in the center of the mosaic surrounded by tiles, Quentin cleared his throat and stammered, “Um … so… um…”

Eliot decided to give him an easy out. He smiled. “Let’s just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

Q nodded, his face unreadable, and agreed quietly, “Yeah.”

They continued working until dark began to fall, as usual, and then ate an unusually silent dinner together. Eliot did the cooking, of course, because even after all this time Quentin was still a hopeless disaster in the kitchen. Eliot found it endearing.

When they prepared for bed, Eliot gathered his sleep clothes as usual and went into the next room to give Quentin his privacy. His stomach knotted again in that same way it had when he first saw Quentin’s soft, sleepy face this morning.

He went into the bedroom to find Quentin hovering uncertainly beside the bed. Eliot gestured casually at the bed and said, “I’m dead on my feet. Let’s just get some sleep, yeah?”

Quentin nodded, but the movement looked odd, like a puppet with its strings being jerked. “Right. Of course.”

They climbed into the bed and assumed their usual spooning position, but Quentin almost immediately turned onto his side facing Eliot. He twined a hand into Eliot’s hair and leaned forward to kiss him, slightly missing his lips in the dark of the bedroom so that he kissed part of Eliot’s mouth and part of his cheek. He immediately pulled back slightly to realign and leaned in again, but Eliot pulled his head back to avoid the kiss. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to continue this,” he said, wishing he could see Quentin’s face but also a bit glad that he couldn’t, because then maybe he wouldn’t have the strength. “This isn’t really what you want, Quentin.” Of that, he felt sure.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Quentin replied, sounding angry. Eliot hadn’t expected that. “And you’ve been calling me ‘Quentin’ all day. What happened to ‘Q’?”

Eliot sighed. “I just thought it might be wise to give ourselves a bit of distance this morning, after what happened last night.”

“What happened last night was amazing,” Quentin said softly, his hand still resting on Eliot’s neck where it had slid when Eliot pulled away from the attempted kiss.

“Well, yes,” Eliot admitted, feeling a bit proud at the description. He knew he was particularly talented with his mouth and dick, even if he did say so himself. In fact, plenty of other people had said so as well. But hearing it from Q was different. “But last night was … last night. We agreed to let it go.”

Quentin pulled his hand away and Eliot found that he missed its soft pressure against the skin of his neck. He cursed himself for a fool. “We agreed not to overthink it,” Eliot corrected him, sounding hurt. “I thought that meant… I mean, I told you. Last night. I told you I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. I thought I made that pretty obvious. And I thought you wanted… but you don’t?”

“A gentleman never holds a lover to anything said in the throes of passion,” Eliot replied stiffly. He remembered those words, and how they had sent emotion racing through his entire being last night. But he knew that Quentin didn’t really mean them. They’d both been in a state of heightened intimacy, but it wasn’t permanent. He’d allowed Quentin past his walls, but that didn’t mean they were … whatever Quentin was describing. He knew that wasn’t what Quentin wanted when his head was clear. Eliot wasn’t what Quentin would want. Not like that. They were friends. Good friends. That was all.

Quentin had pulled far enough away now that their bodies weren’t touching at all. That required considerable effort, given that they’d made the bed large enough for two but not with a lot of extra room beyond that. Quentin must be balancing nearly on the edge of the bed to get away from him. “So you don’t actually want me,” Quentin said, his voice flat. “I think … I think I’ll go sleep on the blanket in the grass tonight. It’ll be nice to look at the stars.”

“You don’t have to _leave_ ,” Eliot insisted, feeling almost panicked.

“I think I do. At least for tonight. Like you said, get some space.” Quentin slid out of the bed, his bare feet quiet on the floor as he walked toward the doorway.

“Quentin,” called Eliot. “Q! Please … can’t we just let this go? I don’t want one night’s mistake to ruin things like it did last time.” He cursed himself for bringing up the other time they’d been together, sure that Quentin would storm out of the room again like he had then. Had he destroyed everything they’d built together by responding to Q’s kiss last night?

But Quentin came back and, from the feel of it, sat on the edge of the bed. “You think this is like that time? El, I was with Alice then. And I … I wasn’t completely in control of myself. I’m sorry I flipped out the way I did, but … you have to know … it wouldn’t have happened if there wasn’t a big part of me that wanted it.”

“Don’t get arrogant, Q. It’s not _that_ big,” Eliot quipped, the knot in his stomach turning to butterflies. Eliot Waugh did _not_ get butterflies. But apparently El did.

Quentin’s hand reached out in the darkness and collided with Eliot’s arm. Eliot moved to link their hands, making a gentle movement to pull Q back onto the bed, and Q complied. “So … you’re saying … um … you _do_ want this? I mean … at least the sex part?”

Eliot took a chance, the biggest chance he’d ever taken, and said, “Not just the sex part. What you said last night … you meant it?”

Q’s voice was almost a whisper as he lay down on the bed again, still holding Eliot’s hand. “Yeah. I meant it.”

“Me too.” God, when had it started? That first day at Brakebills? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he had to admit it now or he’d always regret it and wonder what could have been.

“Yeah?” Q’s voice sounded awed, like he’d hoped but not believed. How could he not have seen it? Had Eliot’s aloof persona really been that convincing? For a moment, he was impressed with his own acting abilities, but now was not the time.

“Yeah.” He pulled Q closer to him until their bodies were aligned, their hands parting so they could wrap their arms around each other.

“Since when?” Q asked, pressing a kiss to Eliot’s throat. It was extremely distracting.

“I’m not sure,” Eliot admitted. “But I’m sure now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is intended to have several meanings, including why it was that Quentin and Eliot were later able to remember their lives in Fillory when that shouldn't have been possible


End file.
